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Come golden Evening! In the west
Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun,
And let the triple rainbow rest

O'er all the mountain-tops ;-'tis done;
The deluge ceases; bold and bright
The rainbow shoots from hill to hill;
Down sinks the sun; on presses night;
Mont Blanc is lovely still!

There take thy stand, my spirit ; spread
The world of shadows at thy feet;
And mark, how calmly over-head,
The stars, like saints in glory, meet;
While, hid in solitude sublime,

Methinks I muse on nature's tomb,
And hear the passing foot of time
Step through the silent gloom.

All in a moment, crash on crash,
From precipice to precipice,
An Avalanche's ruins dash
Down to the nethermost abyss,
Invisible; the ear alone
Pursues the uproar till it dies;

Echo to echo, groan for groan,

From deep to deep, replies.

Silence again the darkness seals,

Darkness that may be felt ;-but soon

The silver-clouded east reveals

The midnight spectre of the moon;
In half-eclipse she lifts her horn,
Yet, o'er the host of heaven supreme,
Brings the faint semblance of a morn
With her awakening beam.

Ha! at her touch, these Alpine heights
Unreal mockeries appear;

With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights,
Emerging as she climbs the sphere;
A crowd of apparitions pale !
I hold my breath in chill suspense,
They seem so exquisitely frail-

Lest they should vanish hence.

I breathe again, I freely breathe;
Thee, Leman's Lake! once more I trace,
Like Dian's crescent, far beneath,

And beautiful as Dian's face:

Pride of the land that gave me birth!

All that thy waves reflect I love,

When heaven itself, brought down to earth,

Looks fairer than above.

Safe on thy banks again I stray:

The trance of poesy is o'er,

And I am here, at dawn of day,

Gazing on mountains as before,

Where all the strange mutations wrought
Were magic feats of mine own mind ;

For, in that fairy land of thought,
Whate'er I seek, I find.

Yet, O ye everlasting hills!

Temples of God, not made with hands,
Whose word performs whate'er He wills,
Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands!
Can there be eyes that look on you,
Till tears of rapture make them dim,
Yet, in such works, no Maker view-
Nor lose the works in Him?

By me, when I behold Him not,
Or love Him not when I behold,
Be all, that e'er I knew, forgot;

My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold
Transform'd to ice, 'twixt earth and sky,
On yonder cliff my shape be seen,
That all may ask, though none reply,
What my offence hath been!

Here, in her sweet retirement, had she felt, even at a tender age, some secret spring touched within her. In the scene of enchantment around her, she had been occasionally impelled to contemplate a higher power, and had sometimes been sensible that her heart was softened, as if it looked through nature up to nature's God.' Once in particular, and the circumstances were now brought to her recollection with peculiar pleasure, she had tarried in her retreat later than usual; and when her mother, who had come with considerable uneasiness in search of her, entered the arbour, she was on her knees, Ashamed to be seen, even by a parent, whose eyes overflowed while they beheld her, in a posture of supplication, she rose hastily, as a deep blush overspead her

cheek. Her mother, anxious to elicit the nascent spark of piety, asking her if she had been praying; hesitating for an instant, she threw her arms about her neck, and, bursting into tears, replied: "Yes, mamma, I was trying to pray. When I was alone here this evening, looking at the sun setting behind the hill, I thought how quickly the time went. I thought how often I had seen it set before, and then how soon it would set to-morrow again, and again, and again, until I was dead, and could see it no more. And I was afraid, mamma; for I did not know where I should go to when I died. And then I remembered that papa had read one night about him who was crucified for us. And the good old pastor, too, had told me of Jesus Christ, one evening, when he took me on his knee; and said, if I believed on him, he would take me to heaven when I died. And I thought I should like to believe on him, and go to heaven. And I knelt down to ask him to make me a child of God. O mamma, mamma"-then breaking again into an agony of crying, and

hiding her face in her mother's breast, she wept and sobbed, as if deeply agitated.

Though the incident in itself was trivial, and the disquietude, which appeared to be awakened relative to her well-being beyond the tomb, had been evanescent as a morning cloud, or as the early dew which passeth away,' still it had a tendency to encourage her in pursuing the path she was now endeavouring, through Divine assistance, to walk in; as it seemed to indicate that her Redeemer, even at that remote period, had had his eye over her for good.' It was in this same lonely and lovely spot, that Emily was now often conscious of a soul attracted towards high and heavenly things.' Thither would she retire, like the pious patriarch of old, to meditate at the eventide.' Here would she pore over the pages of the sacred legacy of her venerable friend, as her best guide through the rugged ways of a troublesome and sinful world, to the confines of eternal glory. Here, occasionally, did she feel it sweet to draw near to God;'

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and here, at intervals, was she favoured with

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